Sing For Me
by Sarah Montrose
Summary: For five years, Christine has been trying to move on...but sometimes, things of the past just won't be killed away. When faced with an unexpected proposition, she doesn't know that the price to pay for letting her fantasies unwind could very well be her soul. *Sequel to the musical*
1. Prologue

**Dear all, **

**Thank you so much for reading my work! I hope you will enjoy it. I will be grateful for all your reviews -they do not have to be all positive, but let us just respect each other's boundaries :) **

**Also, I do not own the picture I used for this story, yet I couldn't find its author. If any of you knows about it, I will definitely include his/her name in a disclaimer!**

**Please keep in mind that my native tongue is French. I would have gladly written this fic in my (and Erik's, Christine's, Meg's, Raoul's'...) native language. However the English-speaking audience is much more important on this website...therefore for your convenience I will be writing this fic in English! However 1) it will take me comparatively more time to write and publish...2) I will definitely include French words and expressions in the text (Hope you won't mind, good messieurs!)**

**Happy reading!**

**Note: This chapter is a prologue, i.e. shorter than my other chapters so don't worry!**

* * *

**Paris, 14 May 1887**

Christine's fingers were cold and shaky, as they held hesitantly to the hands of the old gentleman at her right and the young lady at her left. The silence surrounding them was as thick as the smell of the grave, a mix of earth, wax and incense that weighted heavily on the chest. Eyes shut, Christine saw herself in a flash, attending the inhumation of her father in the family vault seventeen years ago.

"Let us start with you, Christine" the medium said, calling her back to the darkness of the here and now. "Who would you like to speak to?"

"A man I knew" she replied.

"A parent? A lover? A friend?"

_All of them,_ Christine realised bitterly. Yet she could not unabashedly dare to call him any of those. She had shown well enough how unworthy she was of any intimate bond…

"My…my former voice teacher…" she stammered.

"And why would you like to speak with him, Christine?"

Christine inhaled deeply. Opening her heart now might give her the only chance to ever meet him again….

"He…he died a violent death…" she swallowed. "And his spirit has been tormenting me every night ever since."

"What would you like to tell him?"

"Tell him…that I am sorry for what I did to him."

The small assembly had been sworn to secrecy, and Christine hoped that after five years spent away from Paris, the chance that any of them would remember Christine Daaé and connect the disgraced cantatrice with her person, were extremely scarce. But even if such a thing happened, only her closest friend knew about the nature of her relationship with _him_. And the idea that what they were for each other was so much beyond anything anyone could imagine, soothed her heart, safe in its treasured intimacy.

"Very well" the medium's voice was calm. "What is his name?"

"I…I don't know" Christine confessed, ashamed of herself.

A short, intrigued silence followed.

"It is alright. How would you casually call him?"

Christine paused, the memories hitting hard against her heart, like the relentless, pitiless crash of the ocean waves on the Britton shore.

"Angel" she said in a low voice, almost a murmur.

"Good, Christine. We will call your Angel, then" the medium said quietly. When he spoke again a few moments later, his voice had changed and sounded lower, hoarser as if in intense focus. "Angel of Christine, spirit of anger and resentment, make yourself known to us…"

The young woman waited in anguish. The medium repeated his invitation a second time, then a third time. Shortly after the third call, Christine heard a small, almost imperceptible snap somewhere behind her, and the smell of extinguished candles slowly rose to her nose. The lights of the candelabra located behind her chair must have been blown out. But, in the dead silence, Christine was certain that nothing in the room had moved…A shiver ran down her spine, the skin of her neck breaking out in a cold sweat.

"Make yourself known to us…" the medium repeated.

The atmosphere of the room had changed. It seemed to Christine that something threatening loomed over her from behind. Her throat was horribly dry.

"…_._Master?" she whispered in fear.

Without warning, the candelabra behind her fell on the wooden floor with a loud clatter. She shrieked and clasped her neighbours' hands harder. Their sweaty palms and firm grip testified that they were nearly as nervous as herself. Christine almost physically fought the urge to flee. In her rising panic, she remembered the first and most important rule of spiritism: whatever happened, never break the chain, and never open your eyes until the session is over. It was said that those who had broken this rule had been haunted until they died by the horrible visions their eyes had seen…Some things were meant to remain hidden forever.

"We beg you, spirit, to hold your anger." The medium said slowly. "Tell us, we pray, why you are angry with Christine."

The medium seemed to listen for a little while. Christine held her breath in terrified expectation, as she feared she knew all too well why he would be angry with her…the racing of her heart accelerated as the dark presence grew more ominous by the minute. She was near fainting when she felt a strand of her chestnut curls slowly pulled from behind.

"Hm. Hm. I see" the medium said, as if acknowledging someone's silent words. "He says he is angry because he worked hard for nothing…"

Christine, pale as death, stilled a little. She could almost hear her angel of music's sharp reproaches in her own head. _You gave up singing. You gave up music. You threw away your talent and everything that I gave you. You did not remember any of my lessons_._ I taught you how to see beauty with your heart and soul, not with your eyes. How to live daringly and freely. How to be proud of yourself. And look at you now…_ She was convinced that her angel would blame her for his death…but now she realised it would not be like him to accuse anyone else of his capture. He had always been the best at running and hiding…her heart ached cruelly as for the first time ever, it occurred to her that he may have delivered himself willingly into the hands of his executioners, as they hunted him down in the bowels of the opera house. Silent tears of horror rolled over her cheeks.

The medium spoke again to whatever thing was in the room and only him could hear.

" Tell us now, we pray, what you want from Christine, that you torment so restlessly. Hm….I see….Thank you, angel. He says, Christine, that he will not leave you in peace until you take up music again."

_No, angel please! You know I can't!_

"We understand…Goodbye, angel of Christine" the medium said.

"Wait!" Christine gasped.

But she felt suddenly as if a weight was lifted from her chest and she could breathe more freely again. She realised then that the threatening presence behind her had disappeared.

"I am sorry Christine, but the spirit has left this room now" the medium explained apologetically. "He did not wish to say anything more for now. Maybe another time?"

Panting, Christine opened her eyes, meeting the understanding looks of the two other participants. She could not believe her Phantom had been actually present with them, even for a short time. She watched as the medium walked around the table to put the candelabra back on its feet. It was hard to believe…but beyond everything she had been able to tangibly experience within the last minutes, the revelations seemed so much _like him_. Her hands were still trembling from the emotion. The knot in her stomach would not leave her for the rest of the session.


	2. What the Blues Is All About

**Note: The title of this chapter comes from a song by Maria Daines named "That's What The Blues Is All about" ;)**

* * *

The meeting ended around five o'clock. Christine, because of the sunny day, although still a bit chilly for the month of May, decided to walk home to clear her thoughts. The Parc Monceau was as beautiful as always: it was an English garden in style, the alleys of which were covered in a creamy-coloured sand that cracked under her feet. She came across elegant couples and richly-dressed governesses with enthusiastic little children. Christine passed a Chinese bridge curbed over an artificial spring, then sat on a bench beneath a willow tree. In this spot, she faced a peaceful, mirror-like pond, only troubled by the little birds who came to drink, or by the fish swimming too close to the surface. Christine was surrounded by beautiful things but could not see them anymore. Everything was dark and dull, a sunny day and a rainy day being no different for her gloomy mood. In the constant, unreal haze that her life had become since _then_, all the joys and the little pleasures of life, the song of a bird and even the taste of food, had lost their flavour. She had this strange feeling of being a dead among the living, unable to understand how people could rejoice over anything, and understanding even less how she one day could had been like them… Had it all been a dream? At twenty-six, Christine expected nothing from life and only wished a quick, painless death…She longed to meet again in heaven her father and mother…and to settle once and for all her debts with this world below.

The young woman looked around her, in a vain attempt to capture any sensation, noise, smell, or sight, that would make her feel alive again. She had not come to Paris for such a long time…there was something nostalgic about the Haussmannian architecture and the unique glow of the sunset on the smooth rooftops. Apart from the strange, unfinished skeleton of a new building Raoul and herself had seen from the coach, on their way to their hôtel, when they returned four days ago, (she vaguely remembered the cabman telling them that a certain Monsieur Eiffel was supervising a new project for the prestige of the city), Paris had not changed. However, she herself had changed so much, it seemed that the memories of her time there came from another life.

As Christine was sitting there, lost in her thoughts, a young woman came to pass on the other side of the pond. She was wearing a beautifully bustled pink and white dress, adorned with lace on the frame and satin ribbons on the bodice. She was slim and walked gracefully in fluent, long strides, her back and neck so straight that her posture reminded Christine of the Ecole de danse at the opera. Her thoughts immediately drifted to Meg. Sweet, precious Meg…Under her small hat, slightly inclined on the right side of her head, the lady's hair was lifted in a tight bun and fair like the barley in the field under the summer sun…just like Meg's hair, she remembered. Oh, how many times had Christine envied her friend's shiny, silky blond hair between her fingers, when she would brush it for her before the representations! Christine's attention turned to the lady's face. Her hair in the front was cut in fringe…her nose slightly turned up and her lips full…It could not be.

"Meg…" Christine muttered, before jumping on her feet and shouting at the top of her lungs, ignoring the disapproving glares of her elegant surrounding. "MEG!"

The young lady stopped and turned her head in her direction, freezing momentarily. Then all of a sudden, she gathered her skirts in her left hand, her right hand holding her hat in place, and started running to her like a little girl.

"Mon Dieu, Christine!"

Both threw themselves into each other's arms. The scent of Meg's perfume was soothing for Christine's aching soul, and uncontrolled tears ran from her eyes. Meg stepped back and Christine beheld her glittering blue eyes and porcelain-like skin, her cheeks were gently flushed from the rush. Her face was less round in shape than Christine remembered. She seemed less of a child and more of a woman.

"You look radiant, Meg" Christine sincerely said.

"Oh Christine…" Meg's eyes widened in shock, as she squeezed her friend's hands in hers. "Are you…are you ill?"

The naïve honesty of Meg did not offend her old friend. She knew she looked terrible, but still she had not expected a friend she hadn't seen in five years to notice it so easily.

"I am not ill" she replied with a gentle smile.

"Oh I am sorry Christine, I didn't mean to say that!" Meg blushed at her own lack of courtesy. "When did you come back to Paris?"

"Just four days ago…Raoul and I came to attend a wedding. Where are you going like that?"

"I am coming back from a rehearsal"

Christine felt a twitch in her stomach.

"A rehearsal…at the opera house?" she asked anxiously.

"Yes", Meg replied briefly, gauging her friend's reaction with a certain sadness.

"The opera opened again?"

Meg smiled understandingly and put her hand on her shoulder.

"Why don't we have a tea and catch up? Do you have time?"

"I would love that" Christine replied wholeheartedly.

Meg slid her arm under Christine's.

"In that case, I know the perfect place!"

As she walked arm in arm with her best friend in the streets of her beloved city, it seemed to the viscountess of Chagny that a small piece of her heart, that had been missing for a long time, was back to its place.

* * *

"I hope you planned to let me know you were visiting?" Meg asked playfully as they sat in comfortable armchairs.

The salon de thé was elegantly quiet and comfortable, the wallpaper covered with flowers. Meg fit perfectly into the picture, like a precious porcelain doll, Christine thought.

"Of course" she replied. "I was just taking the time to settle a little…Some time have passed since I last came here."

In truth, she was not sure if she would have had the heart to contact Meg. There were little things left in life she saw any meaning in. In the foggy world of her mind, she would not have seen the purpose of speaking with Meg again. However, having her best friend in front of her now reminded her of how badly she had been missing her and needing her, and she was incredibly grateful of their unexpected encounter.

"Five years, yes" Meg said, looking absently at the flowers decorating their table, then looking into her eyes again. "More years than you performed at the opera. So…how long will you be staying?"

Five years ago, Meg would have asked the question with sparkles in her eyes. Now, it seemed that her girlish spontaneity and excitement had left room for a new kind of emotional restraint. She looked more…_complicated_.

"Two weeks…"Christine replied sadly. "Then we will be going back to Perros-Guirec".

Meg did not hide her disappointment at the news, although there was a kind of peaceful resignation in her eyes.

"So soon…"

"Raoul does not like Paris."

The waiter, a charming young man in his late twenties, came to them, a tray stuck beneath his armpit.

"So what would you like ladies?"

"Two rose flavoured teas please Monsieur" Meg ordered with a bright smile, handing him the menu back.

"Straight away, Mademoiselle" he replied with a flirty wink, and left them.

Christine distantly observed the scene unfolding before her eyes. There was a time when men were full of attentions for her too. She was still young, but men wouldn't look at her anymore. Raoul himself had not visited her bed for more than a year now and would spend almost all his evenings out. Standing at the window Christine had sometimes seen him returning home at a very late hour with a young and richly dressed demoiselle she had never seen before, clinging to his arm. She could not blame him. Her company must have become as delightful to bear as a coffin conveyed to the grave. She wouldn't have been surprised to learn that she carried with her the smell of a rotting corpse too.

"So" Meg resumed their conversation. "Raoul finally accepted to come back to Paris then?"

Christine eyes glazed over.

"Well" she explained painstakingly, "since what happened…in January of last year...the idea did not seem to him as bad as it used to."

Meg bit her lips and they remained solemnly silent for a long time. Only after the tea was served, did Meg speak again, an expression of sincere concern on her face.

"You have not written to me for more than a year….How are things with Raoul? Are you happy?"

Her question sounded so ludicrous that Christine couldn't refrain a soft, heart-wrenching laugh.

"Oh Meg…" she traced, unable to finish.

Meg fervently reached for her hands over the table.

"Christine…please, tell me what is going on? you said you were not sick…But you grew so skinny and you look extremely unwell, I only recognized your voice when you called me at the park. Tell me, do you eat enough? Do you get enough sleep? Is Raoul making you miserable? I am so worried about you!"

Christine shook her head.

"Things just added up" she explained evasively. "And the sum of it all is just too much for me to bear.

"Tell me everything" Meg insisted.

Christine quickly wiped away the tears that had come up to her eyes. Where could she possibly start? Her life was a complete mess.

"From the beginning, Raoul and I…we were not a good match. In love, but…we should never have married. This was a very bad choice"

Meg's eyes widened in shock.

"What?" she wondered. "But…"

"I wrote to you that things were well because I tried hard to convince myself that they were indeed…But I should have listened to your mother, Meg. She told me straight away that Raoul and I were not right for each other. But I did not listen! I just…wanted to run away and have my life sorted out."

"What went wrong, Christine?"

"There is almost nothing I can share with Raoul. He never understood my doubts...my secret dreams...my love of music...my solitary spirit... He loves going out all the time and having entertaining evenings in good society…but you know me, Meg, such things absolutely bore me. He tried to please me in every way. He literally covered me with jewels and small attentions, in his own way. But he never understood why the kind of life he offered me could not satisfy me. I think it saddened him…it _saddens_ him to see that he cannot make me happy…But it is not his fault, Meg! Our temperaments are too different."

Meg shook her head in disbelief.

"Oh, Christine…I am so sorry it didn't work for you two! But…." She hesitated before going on. "But you should not allow yourself to starve and be miserable because of this! I thought for a moment he was mistreating you…"

"Of course he isn't mistreating me" Christine reassured her. "Raoul cares about me. And I am neither the first, nor the last woman in history to be trapped in a mismatched marriage."

She forced a laugh, hoping to alleviate her pain. Had it been only for her incompatibility with Raoul, she would probably still be alive. There were many ways to work out problems of the sort and lead a decent life…but the problem, for both Raoul and herself, was elsewhere...it was in the past.

"I don't understand" Meg confessed. "Then why _this_?…what is happening to you, my Christine?"

Christine took a deep breath. She hadn't revealed any of this to anyone yet, and there was something extremely intimidating about it.

"Raoul…will not let me sing. Since we got married, he never allowed me to play the piano, or go to the opera. He does not want me to touch or taste music anymore…"

Meg flushed, this time with anger.

"How could he do that to you? Music was your _life_, Christine! He certainly knows that very well!"

"Precisely, Meg, I think he doesn't. For him, music is only a hobby. Besides…." The thought made her nervous. "He says he is doing this to protect me…because music makes me lose my mind. And maybe he is right, Meg." She added quickly.

"What do you mean?" her friend asked cautiously.

Christine slowly took her face in her hands. She did not dare to look at Meg in the eyes…

"His music never abandoned me, Meg….but since that day of January, each time I lie in bed at night…I can hear _him_ sing. I know it's all in my head, but it is seems so real I sometimes believe he is in the room with me. And then he commands me to sing…I sit down, open my mouth, fill my lungs…but then nothing comes out, Meg! I cannot sing a note anymore. He stole my voice!" Tears of anguish flowed uncontrollably from her eyes. "And he comes back every night to torment me! He knows how much suffering it brings !"

Meg's hand brushed her arm in an attempt to comfort her.

"Christine…He was certainly a fearsome man, capable of everything...yet he never laid his hands on you, even when you chose Raoul. I don't think he would take pleasure in your misery now. Didn't he...love, you in his own way?"

Christine finally found the courage to look into Meg's eyes.

"But it all happened because of me…I betrayed him and delivered him into the hands of his enemies…Raoul's plan was to arrest him, and I played the bait. He was my master, my confidant, my best friend…I betrayed him, they got him…and …"

"It wasn't your fault, Christine…both him and Raoul backed you into a corner…you were in an impossible situation!"

" No Meg, I was too young and couldn't see past my fears. He scared me. I would not accept to see that God made us for one another. Yet it was frighteningly obvious from the beginning.". She shrugged with a smile."We needed each other to exist to the world."

Meg had become very pale. Christine was suddenly aware of how scary and strange she must seem in her friend's eyes.

_She is right. I have always been as insane as he was. One more thing we had in common__._

"You must think I am nuts", she abruptly assessed, wiping her nose with her handkerchief. "Ask yourself how I can regret a madman and a murderer and…"

"No I don't" Meg interrupted very seriously. "People can do terrible things when they suffer." She held Christine's hands, looking for words, then smiled at her. "I am just thinking…you are probably missing music too much and this goes to your head. It is normal, I would be the same if I gave up dancing for such a long time." She laughed lightly "My mother would come to me in dreams…threatening me with her stick until I do a perfect pirouette!"

Christine though she misunderstood.

"Your mother…what do you mean?"

Meg stared at her for a moment, then fell back on her chair in sudden realisation.

"Oh, yes, you don't know yet…Maman passed away six months ago."

Even in her present numb state, Christine felt something cry deep inside of her at the news. During the three years she performed at the opera, she had grown attached to Madame Giry although she never envied the life of the _petits rats de l'opéra_ she directed with such a ruthless hand. In memory of her friendship with Christine's father, she had taken the young eighteen-year old choir girl under her wing as soon as she entered the opera.

"I am so sorry, Meg" she muttered.

"I am alright. Life goes on" Meg smiled. "Dance goes on!"

"Yes…yes, you told me the opera house opened again."

"Three years ago, yes" Meg replied.

"So what ballet were you rehearsing today?"

"It's from a new young composer named Clovis Denfert. It's a ballet adaptation of _Beauty and the Beast_."

"Interesting" Christine took a sip of her tea now completely cold. Her curiosity hadn't been stimulated in a long time, and for some reason she found the idea of this ballet strangely attractive. "What part are you playing?"

Meg was beaming.

"You won't believe me… but I am playing Belle, the main role. Actually, I will be nominated étoile after the première tomorrow night."

Christine put her cup down, as a twinge of joy for her friend's accomplishment somehow managed to fight its way up to the surface.

"Oh, Meg…that is wonderful news"

"Yes, it is a bit like having wings!"

"I would love to come and see you tomorrow night with Raoul." Christine declared. "Is the room fully booked?"

Meg's joy vanished and looked suddenly uncomfortable.

"What is it?" Christine asked.

"Nothing" Meg assured her. "I would love you to come, It's just…you told me Raoul didn't want you to go to the opera, and…well, I don't want to create more problems between you two."

"I will convince him."

Meg blinked.

"Are you sure?"

"I will find away".

"Well then…I am sure free seats can be arranged for the viscount and viscountess of Chagny." She blushed, laughing again. "I would be more than happy to have you near, Christine! I am very nervous about it you know…"

"You will be perfect, Meg. And I know someone up there will be very proud of you."

Meg looked down, smiling dreamily.

"I hope so…I hope so with all my heart."

* * *

Christine came home later than usual that night. Paul, the family butler, rushed to help her with her coat.

"Is Monsieur le Vicomte home?"

"He charged me to inform you that he will be out late tonight, Madame."

Christine shrugged negligently. She had no doubt as to Raoul's whereabouts. She walked up the stairs to her room. While a maid helped her undress, it occurred to her that she felt strange tonight, as if something in her life had slightly changed but she could not put a name on it. She had been surprised by her own assurance with Meg earlier. Convincing Raoul would not be easy, yet she hadn't recoiled from the challenge. In her normal state, she would not have cared about the opera and would have cared even less about attending, even for her best friend. It was simply too much effort. Now, however, there was something vaguely…_exhilarating_ at the idea of going back to the opera house.

When she had changed into a nightdress, Christine sat in front of the mirror at her dressing table while the handmaid delicately brushed her abundant chestnut curls. For the first time, Christine was faintly concerned at the sight of all the hair that remained stuck on the brush. She had been losing so much of it lately lately…it had grown colourless and breaking, harsh to the touch. She stared absently at her reflection in the looking glass. Her skin was pale as wax, dark blue circles hanging under her eyes. Her cheekbones and the line of her jaw had never been so marked. The doctor that Raoul, alarmed at her decay, had hired to look after her, had been clear that no disease was in cause and she only needed to eat, sleep properly, and exercise a little bit every day. The sleeping pills he had prescribed helped her fall asleep a bit more easily, although giving her strange and sometimes scary dreams. As for the anxiolytic drugs, they only succeeded in increasing her anguish with outbreaks of sweat and tachycardia. She had secretly stopped taking them shortly after the beginning of her treatment. She was sure now that nothing could save us except one person…or rather, one miracle.

"Thank you Marie" she said, dismissing the young woman.

The latter curtsied before leaving the room.

"Good night Madame".

When she had left, Christine dropped her face in her hands, speaking out loud to an invisible presence.

"Did you cast a spell on me?" she muttered.

_Sing for me_.

"You are cruel, angel of music. You took my voice with you to the tomb…"

With trembling hands, she opened the drawer of the dressing table, gently fumbling under the layers of ribbons, hairclips and artificial flowers. Her finger reached a dry and rough surface. She retrieved a folded paper and slowly laid it open on the table. The engraving on the front page displayed a disfigured and fierce-looking man, forced by two policemen to kneel, his neck secured in wooden stocks. Above his head, in the dreadful frame, an angled blade hanged ominously. The headlines read:

_Paris, 10 January 1886, _

_THE INFAMOUS PHANTOM OF THE OPERA SUCCUMBS TO THE GUILLOTINE_

_The Anonymous murderer who haunted the Palais Garnier for years was finally executed this Monday morning at 6 a.m. at the prison de la Santé, his head severed from his body. According to the prison chaplain, the man did not repent of his crimes and spoke no last words…_

Christine stood up, trembling. She did not have more strength today to swallow those written words than she did on that fatal day. Feeling faint and sick, she blew out the candle and laid down on her bed in the dark. There, eyes closed, she waited.


	3. Strings Attached

**Dear all, **

**Just a small precision at the beginning of this new chapter! Even though this story follows the musical, I chose to follow the book on some aspects: Christine entered the opera house at 18-19 (not as a child like in the movie) and as a choir girl (not as a ballerina like in the musical). She remained three years at the opera and married Raoul a little before turning 22. I don't think it believable that a man in his late thirties as refined as the Phantom would have fallen in love with an childish teenage girl whose voice wasn't even near to its full maturity (In this regard, 19 seems still too young). Also, just like in the book, Christine is four years older than Meg. Happy reading and let me know your thoughts :) **

* * *

From the box in which Christine and Raoul were invited to sit, the view of the stage, stretching just below, was complete. You had to be a person of importance to find such beautifully located seats in the morning preceding a premiere representation. The growing murmur of the room filling with spectators, sent little chills down Christine's spine. It all sounded so familiar, yet so remote. From where she was, she thought she could even smell the wooden stage, the thick velvet curtains, the choking, abrasive hairspray and the talc with which the ballerinas would rub the back and platform of their _pointes_ shoes. Without thinking, she glanced at box 5, which mirrored their box across the room. It was occupied by five richly dressed aristocrats.

Raoul held the seat for her and she sat, distractingly moving her embroidered fan back and forth.

"Do you feel alright, _ma chérie_?" he inquired, bent over her.

She gave him a gentle, reassuring smile.

"I am perfectly fine, dear. Thank you."

Raoul was not peaceful at the idea of coming back to the opera house, nonetheless it had been easier to convince him than Christine anticipated. The same morning, she had brought the coffee to his room herself, and sitting down on the bed next to him, had told her bewildered husband of her encounter with Meg the day before and entreated him to attend the ballet with her tonight. Apparently, Raoul had been less surprised to see her bring coffee to his bed -something she had never done before- than to hear her express any kind of desire, whatever it was. It was a very long time since Christine had last shown any interest in doing anything, least of all requested to do it. She had been so clear about the pleasure it would give her to see Meg dance that his protest had been weak. He could not willingly refuse this small joy to his wife, who had been slowly decaying for several years now.

"Christine…you know I would prefer not to go to the opera. If you are happy to go out, why not go to the Comédie Française instead?"

She had kissed his hand, raising pleading eyes to him.

"Please. Only for one night."

Embarrassed and unable to resist, Raoul had looked away, running his hand into his blond hair.

"Fine. If…if that is really what _you_ want, Christine. We will go."

Raoul sat down at her right, fidgeting nervously on the arm of his seat. He would regularly glance at his wife, as if he feared something would get out of control sooner or later. An older gentleman accompanied by a lovely demoiselle entered their box and sat behind them with a soft "_Bonsoir_" and a puff of heady perfume. Christine was too distracted by the stage, where the director of the opera had appeared to give to the curious audience some information about the new ballet, to notice Raoul's furious stare at the young lady, the latter replying only with a teasing smile.

The room went dark and the curtain opened on the scenery of an abandoned castle beneath a stormy sky. In the foreground, the gates were framed by bushes of red roses. Christine remembered how her father would read her this fairytale when she was a child, before going to sleep. She used to love it. As soon as the first notes played, it seemed to her that the earth had opened under her feet and gulped her down. Instantly, she was absorbed into the music, forgetting herself and the surrounding world. The melody was dark and beautiful, and carried so much sensitivity that it warmed up her heart and gave her goosebumps at the same time. There was only one music that ever moved her soul and whole being so deeply and instantly. She stared, fascinated, her painted lips slightly ajar. The ballet unfolded like a dream, dancers moving in and out, the fabric of their costume flying around them in a haze. When the Beast appeared, a man with the head of a black wolf wearing a long, black coat framed with fur, Meg graciously jumped back, silently shaking her arms in terror. Christine swallowed. The first _pas de deux_ of Belle and the Beast was vividly expressive. Both were scared, though they showed it differently: the beast used brutality and threats, Belle tried to escape. Yet every time, a strange attraction seemed to draw them back together. In a later scene, the dynamic had changed: the Beast kneeled in front of Belle, gesturing a marriage proposal by handing her a rose. Belle, torn between her love for his inner beauty and a repugnance for his appearance she could not overcome, first took the rose with a shy and trembling hand, before dropping it on the floor, shaking her head and cupping her own face to protect her eyes from his hideous vision. Christine's breathing became difficult and she fanned herself more quickly. And the music went on, relentlessly piercing her soul with cold golden darts…

"Christine, would you like to go?" Raoul whispered, alarmed by the growing change in her behaviour.

She shook her head without turning her eyes away from the stage. Had she wished it, she would not have been able to leave now. She thought she saw her own life unfolding before her eyes. Every feeling and memory that she had painfully buried in the depths of her soul all those years were coming back to life. She swore she could hear _him_ in this music. She thought she recognised in it the touch of his magnificent hand and delicate, tormented spirit. They reached the last scene. The Beast slowly died of love under his precious rosebushes, a withered rose in his hand. He had been waiting in vain for the return of Belle at the fixed time. Meg took him in her arms, tenderly hiding her face in the fur of his neck. Then, she reached for the rose and held it against her chest, before kissing softly the top of his beastly head. Christine cried silently, eyes fixed, as in a cloud of white sparkling powder, the Beast disappeared, and a handsome prince laid on the floor in its place.

When the curtain had closed and opened again for the dancers' reverence under a roar of applause, Christine stood up without thinking and clapped her hands loudly, stopping at times to wipe away the tears from her eyes. On the stage, Meg was crowned _étoile_ by the Ballet master. Raoul took Christine by the waist, strangely eager to leave.

"Come on, let us go now."

"I would like to congratulate Meg before we leave."

Raoul rolled his eyes.

"Alright. But please no more than a few minutes."

"I will meet you in the corridor outside the box."

Christine kissed him on the cheek and left him alone with the dangerously beautiful demoiselle, that in her haste she acknowledged too quickly.

Christine knew all the shortcuts to reach Meg's dressing room before the horde of admirers. She was a bit frightened by the strange frenzy that had seized her body and sharpened her spirit. Her fingers were shaking from the excitement. What was happening to her? One hand on her racing heart, she knocked and pushed open Meg's door.

"Oh…"

Near the dressing table, his back turned to Christine, stood a man. After hearing her, he briskly stepped aside, letting go of Meg's hand and turning to the new visitor. His fair face, framed by a short-cut golden hair and lit by a pair of bright blue eyes, was flushed in embarrassment. He could not have been more than thirty years old. Christine smiled in surprise, glancing at Meg who didn't seem pleased by the interruption.

"Forgive me for the intrusion" Christine apologised. "I didn't know that…"

"Don't worry about that, Christine" Meg interrupted. "This is Clovis Denfert, the composer of _Beauty and the Beast_. Monsieur Denfert, my friend the Vicomtesse Christine de Chagny, who used to be _prima donna_ at the opera."

Christine looked at him again, this time in wonder, gladly offering him her hand.

"Oh, Monsieur…it is such an honour to meet you! Tchaikovsky's work seems awfully tawdry and crude in comparison to yours."

The man's blue eyes cleared and sharpened when he heard Christine's name, as if he had been very familiar with it before. The Vicomtesse stiffened as he kissed her gloved hand reverently, wondering if his knowledge of her originated in the mediatic coverage of the frightening affair of the Opera Ghost.

"I assure you Madame, you have _no idea_ how much your compliments mean to me."

"Please, tell me, Monsieur Denfert" Christine went on boldly, eager to direct the conversation topic away from her person, "Where did you study music? And who was your teacher?"

The man cleared his throat, apparently unsettled by the question.

"Oh well…I studied at the Academy of Music in Marseilles…my teacher was talented, although fairly obscure. You wouldn't know him."

"Maybe if you told me his name…"

"Dear Monsieur Denfert" Meg cut off, gently touching the young man's arm. "Thank you so much for the flowers. I am sure you have a triumph to enjoy tonight and I wouldn't want to detain you."

"Of course, Miss Giry", Monsieur Denfert replied, straightening up -but there was no mistaking the meaning of the tender glow in his eyes when he looked at her. "Thank you again for the enchanting performance you gave us tonight. If you will excuse me, Madame la Vicomtesse."

Powerless, Christine could only nod. When he had closed the door behind him, she looked back at Meg teasingly.

"You didn't tell me you and Clovis Denfert were sweethearts."

Meg sat at her dressing-table and resumed removing her earrings and diadem.

"We are not sweethearts", she snapped at her. "Though he would like us to be. But what is going on with you tonight anyway? Are you drunk? I swear I have never seen you so excited in my entire life! What a chatterbox!"

Christine rose her eyebrows, offended by her sharp comments. Meg had never spoken to her like that before. It was too bad she had to choose this day for a first, when Christine's nerves were on edge and her mood completely out of control.

"I am sorry Meg. I just wanted to be the first person to congratulate you." She explained. Without giving Meg the time to react, she opened the door before turning around one last time and adding abruptly: "But being a diva does not suit you that much in the end."

Meg stood up swiftly, bitten by remorse.

"Christine…wait!"

But Christine had already shut the door behind her. Meg fell back on her chair, resting her chin on her palm and staring at her blushing reflection in the mirror for a few minutes. She was not proud of herself. There certainly was a major difference between the wandering ghost she had met the day before at the park and the feverish, childishly excited Christine that ended up in her dressing-room tonight. Meg suspected the reason of this sudden change and dreaded being right…She had been unfair to Christine, but the situation completely overwhelmed her.

"What should I do?" she muttered to herself.

A growing rumor outside the door informed her that the crowd of admirers in front of her dressing room was becoming more dense….Meg didn't want anything to do with _them_, yet she would have to play her role a bit more.

* * *

By the time Christine strode out of Meg's room and elbowed her way in the crowd of gentlemen that ambushed the entrance, her surge of anger had slowly cooled down, leaving place to disappointment. What was the subject of the quarrel again? Surely, she couldn't have behaved like she did with a dear friend she hadn't seen for so long. It was very likely that Meg had good reasons for being irascible. She needed to unwind after the intense pressure of the performance and Christine had been too intrusive. Besides, Meg was right to pinpoint how strange her behaviour had been. She resolved to send a note to her friend later this evening to apologise.

Absorbed in her thoughts, Christine wandered a long moment in the dark and silent backstage area before realizing she had taken the wrong passage to reach the galleries. The sound of her heels echoed in the empty corridors. The artists seemed to have already deserted this part of the building for the night. She had never feared being on her own in the most remote and quiet places of the opera, unlike her colleagues who were afraid of meeting there, hiding in the shadow, the dreaded opera Ghost with his Punjab lasso in hand. Christine knew that her angel watched over her day and night. Outside of her room, it was usually along one of those isolated passages that she would hear in wonder his charming voice speak to her and sing for her.

The dark corridor opened on a small hall that somehow seemed familiar to her. It was partly illumined by a ray of light than ran on the floor and on the wall. Turning the head toward the source of light, Christine noticed on the other end of the hall a half-open door. She drew near with the intuition of knowing what place she would find on the other side.

The choir room.

The room was middle-size and enlightened by gas wall lights. On the left when entering, four rows of wooden benches had been placed, facing a piano. It was in this place that Christine would rehearse with the choir – and alone when she became a soloist. The curved ceiling granted it acoustic qualities that were only matched, within the opera house, by the theatre. The young woman drew near the piano and brushed with her hand the smooth surface of it, which was sculpted in expensive wood. She then opened the lid before running her fingers over the cold ivory keyboard. A vivid memory came to her, and she remembered that day when, during one of her chaotic rehearsals of _Don Juan Triumphant_ with the choir, the piano had unexpectedly started to play the melody on its own, filling with terror the small assembly. Yet it couldn't be the same instrument. Christine remembered that it had been of a much darker shade than this one, and had probably perished in the fire.

Christine sat dreamily on the piano bench. She hadn't touched an instrument for such a long time. Irresistible music swelled in her head, and she dug the keys mechanically. The words that accompanied the tune could not pass her lips, yet loudly rang in her head.

_In sleep he sang to me_

_In dreams he came_

_That voice which calls to me_

_And speaks my name…_

Her finger froze when a tickle in her neck gave her the feeling of being watched. She whirled around on the bench and saw the young maestro, Clovis Denfert, standing still on the doorstep and watching her.

"Ah! Maestro, you frightened me…" she said with a tense laugh, placing a hand on her chest as if it would slow down the furious pumping of her heart.

It seemed the young man had been about to leave for the night. He wore a dark frock coat with a white scarf, his hat in his hand. Embarrassed, Christine stood up and put some distance between herself and the instrument, with the attitude of a child caught red-handed. Clovis Denfert respectfully walked to her, his expression unreadable.

"Please, forgive my intrusion…" she said apologetically. "I lost myself on the way to the galleries, and I saw light. I shouldn't have entered."

The young maestro smiled reassuringly, and for the first time she was given the possibility to notice that his blue eyes looked like the glowing surface of a rich and complex mind.

"It is my place to apologise, Madame", he responded with a slight and courteous bow of his head. "I should have made my presence known, as propriety required, but I didn't want to interrupt you. In truth, your music charmed me and I was eager to hear the rest of it."

"Oh, the music isn't mine, Monsieur", she quickly replied. "Although I don't know the author's name."

This at least wasn't a lie, she thought. Gesturing delicately toward the piano, Monsieur Denfert invited her to sit again.

"Please, Madame, continue. My piano is yours."

"Thank you Monsieur, but I can't stay..."

"What a pity then!" he deplored. "I dearly hoped to hear you sing…"

The young man put his hat on the top of the piano and sat on the bench in her place, before spontaneously beginning to play for her, his hand running over the keyboard with a wonderful agility. The sound was pleasant and Christine's resolve to leave disappeared into thin air.

"In truth Monsieur", Christine observed with a sigh, relaxing a little at the comforting sound of the piano, "Not everyone liked my voice. Many influential critics found it too "_sombre"_ and "_melancholic"_ to be enjoyable."

"Really, Madame? I have heard some people of unquestionable taste praise La Daaé's voice, though."

Christine smiled, guessing the name of the anonymous admirer.

"Miss Giry's kindness and generosity extends to everyone." She said.

The composer did not stop playing, yet laughed in self-denigration.

"Oh! Not to everyone, Madame…Miss Giry can show herself extremely fierce. I can hide nothing from you since you caught us together earlier."

He raised his eyes from the keyboard with an understanding smile. Christine couldn't help but smile back. She felt sorry for him and wished that Meg could return his feelings. By the quality of his ballet, she could tell that he carried treasures of sensitivity in his soul.

"How long have you been knowing Meg?" she asked casually.

"Since I came to Paris a few months ago, when my ballet was selected by the academy of music. What about you?"

"Since I came to Paris like yourself years ago, to audition for the opera choir. I was eighteen, coming from Britany, and my train had been delayed. When I finally found the opera house, the gates were closed to the latecomers as the auditions had already started."

Christine could remember distinctly her sorrow and disappointment that day, as she sank crying on the steps in front of the gates. She felt she had failed her father. It had been his dream, if not exactly hers, that she pursued a career in music. Gustave Daaé's dreams only became Christine's later, after the angel of music breathed into her soul his loving adoration for this wonderful art and taught her to look beyond theories and hard practice, into the very soul of music. She went on softy:

"Meg was leaving the opera house at the same moment to get some new pointe shoes at the workshop across the square. She was only fourteen at the time. Yet when she saw how distraught I was, she helped me get in through the artists' back entrance and took me to her mother, who was then the Ballet mistress. When Madame Giry learned that I was Gustave Daaé's daughter, she told me she remembered the time when my father and I had briefly come to perform in Paris on a traveling fair when I was ten. She interceded for me with the Music master. He eventually accepted to audition me and I was selected for the choir. Meg and I then quickly became excellent friends."

It was not in Christine's nature to confide so freely in someone she barely knew. However, the man's music spoke to her and seemed to have woven a peculiar bond between them. She felt less lonely and strange, as she could see in someone else the same aspirations she carried deep inside of her.

"And what will you be working on next, Monsieur?" she couldn't help asking.

"Excellent question, Madame de Chagny", he replied in a playful tone. "What would you suggest?"

"A ghost story."

Below his fair brow, the maestro's eyes glittered with amusement and he eventually lifted his hands from the keyboard.

"Your imagination is dark and untamed, Madame", he declared appreciatively. "You are not like the other women. Sadly, our day and age only favours and exalts a conventional tawdriness, and the expression of beauty finds itself extremely restricted. It truly is a disaster for the inspired soul."

"It is true. But your opera precisely flirts with the limits of the propriety you mentioned. It is not proper to show on stage a woman's love for an animal." She caressed the piano, lost in her thoughts, before confessing: "Monsieur, if I questioned you about your master's identity earlier…it is because your music makes me think of someone I used to know and dearly admired."

"I assume you mean the man who composed the music you were playing when I entered?" Monsieur Denfert cleverly guessed.

Christine nodded.

"He was extremely talented", she explained. " A genius. But people would not understand him."

"There is nothing surprising about that. Excellence often goes unnoticed in a world essentially filled with mediocre minds", he said with a tinge of bitterness in his voice. "So many geniuses only reaped the fruits of their glory long after they died…one has to be capable of everything to earn recognition in his life." He resumed his improvisation on the piano, then added with a lighter tone: "Would you accept to sing an aria for me, Madame de Chagny?"

His improvisation shifted to a more structured melody, that Christine instantly recognized. The playful notes of _L'amour est un oiseau rebelle_ from Bizet's _Carmen_ stirred her heart. The young woman had never sung it on stage. However, working on the arias of the passionate Carmen had helped her prepare for the role of Aminta, that the Phantom had destined to her in _Don Juan Triumphant_. Christine had often dreamed of resembling those colourful opera heroines who were her radical opposite in temperament, yet whose fatal charm, freedom and assurance she envied. Trembling, she opened her lips, taking a deep breath. But once again, the raising notes only burned inside, stuck in her throat. Overwhelmed by a feeling of despair, she shook her head.

"I am sorry, Monsieur Denfert, but I no longer sing."

"Surely, Madame still sings for pleasure, even though she no longer practices?" he suggested, carrying on with the aria.

"I haven't sung in a year and a half", she explained piteously.

This time, the music completely stopped. Clovis Denfert's expression was filled with dismay.

"Madame…what a waste !" he deplored, before adding expressly: "But it is still not too late. You could still recover your voice, almost unchanged, if…"

"_Excuse me_."

Christine jumped and turned to the door where Raoul was standing. His furious gaze went from the young maestro, sitting at the piano, to his wife who stood next to it. Christine's anxiety rushed back. Monsieur Denfert stood up when the newcomer entered the room with a displeased scowl on his face.

"Dear husband", Christine welcomed him feverishly. "This is Monsieur Clovis Denfert, the composer of tonight's ballet."

"A pleasure to meet you, Monsieur le Vicomte" Clovis Denfert greeted, holding out his hand.

Raoul stared at him suspiciously without a word, before nodding to him in a way that looked more like an sign of acknowledgement than a polite gesture. He deliberately ignored his hand and directed his attention fully to his wife.

"I have been looking for you, Madame." He said sharply. "We are leaving now. Monsieur."

He gave one last warning look at the young musician, before seizing Christine's wrist and dragging her outside.

"Raoul, you are hurting me!" she complained when they had reached the Grand Escalier.

The crowd of spectators thickened around the exit porches, where, after being slowly filtered, they dissolved into the night.

"I will let you go once we have left this cursed place", he spat.

When they had finally passed the carriage entrance, the young couple found themselves lost into a nocturnal chaos. In the darkness dimly altered by the lampposts, dozens of coaches waited intertwined, in the middle of a human tide. Horses barred the way to the pedestrians, and prevented other carriages from leaving. Some people screamed and complained about the mess. Raoul looked around him for the sight of his family blazon on one of the vehicles.

"Where has it gone? We can't see a thing!" he grumbled.

Christine was losing her footing as Raoul pitilessly dragged her along. Disadvantaged by her small size, she was restlessly crushed and bumped into. At one point, while trying to follow Raoul between two cabs leaving only a narrow passage between them, her dress got caught into the axletree of one of the wheels and held her back.

"Raoul!" she called, while her husband kept pulling on her arm without noticing the incident.

Finally he turned around and when he beheld the situation in which his wife was stuck, a shadow of remorse crossed his face. He hurried back and helped her free herself.

"Wait for me there on the steps with the other ladies" he told her, pointing back to the staircase in front of the gates. "I will come and fetch you."

Then without another word, he disappeared into the hectic crowd. Sighing, and rubbing her painful wrist, Christine somehow managed to make her way back and reach the staircase that overlooked the chaotic square. Raoul was unfair to her. Why have such a visceral reaction against poor Monsieur Denfert? Perhaps seeing them both together made him believe that she was considering resuming her career at the opera, a fate that he so zealously wished to keep her away from. He was striving uselessly: now that she had lost her voice with her angel, she could no longer make a living out of it. Christine was deep into those reflections when the conversation of two ladies waiting a few steps behind her reached her ears.

"The Vicomte de Chagny never dared to show off with his mistress in the company of his wife before", the eldest woman observed.

Christine's blood froze inside her veins.

"Poor vicomtesse", the younger one deplored compassionately. "What an humiliation to endure, and from her own husband!"

"Not if the mistress is of a higher rank than the wife", the other replied viciously. "You can see the irony of it all. One wonders which of the two women is the most disgraced."

"You are cruel. Madame de Chagny seems already very ill to me and she doesn't deserve this outrage on top of it…"

Christine held her trembling hands tightly against her abdomen. Could these women be talking about her? How could they ? In a flash, she saw again the beautiful demoiselle who had sat behind them in the box. Everyone in the theater been able to see the three of them together. And she had made the mistake of leaving Raoul behind with her…No, it was impossible. Raoul had mistresses and she knew it. Yet he had always had the…_elegance_ of keeping them away from her sight and of at least pretending to be faithful to her.

Any other night than this one, Christine would have resigned silently. Yet tonight her blood was boiling in her veins in a restless way she hadn't experienced for so long. She felt the pang of _indignation_ and _betrayal_.

"Christine."

Christine looked down and saw Raoul, standing sternly next to the family cab and holding the door for her. Without a word, she climbed into it. Raoul sat in the seat across hers, and knocked impatiently on the roof with his stick. The coach departed. Both of them remained silent for the entire trip home. When they arrived to the _hôtel particulier_, a valet ran to the cab and opened the door for them. Raoul went out first before helping Christine get off.

"Tonight was our last night at the opera", he declared sullenly as they walked into the hall. "No more arguing."

"Why, dear husband?" she retorted coldly as a maid removed her coat. "I heard people say you enjoyed the show quite well."

Taken aback by her aggressive tone, that she had almost never used with him, Raoul frowned. He dismissed the servants with a sharp movement of the hand and waited until they were alone before speaking again.

"What do you mean?" he demanded.

His wife glared at him with eyes full of hate and sorrow.

"You know very well what I mean." She muttered in a low, threatening tone,

"Christine…"

"Have I ever complained about your wandering around the city every other night to find comfort in the arms of other women?" she screamed. Her piercing voice echoed in the stony hall. "No! I have been tolerant. But don't associate me with your dirty affairs!"

Petrified, Raoul had become as white and still as a statue, but Christine wasn't in a merciful mood tonight. Not after everything that happened.

"Christine…", he trailed with a pleading voice, "Please listen to me…"

" No Monsieur, _you_ listen to me!" She went on, startled by the energy and rage that devoured her insides. "I know some women allow their husband's strutting about with their…their _whores_, in their own presence! But I never will! I am your _wife_, Raoul! And if you can't find in yourself enough virtue to remain faithful to your wedding vows, then at least have the decency to feel ashamed about it!"

Her cheeks aflame, she turned away from him and started climbing decisively the stairs leading to her rooms. Raoul ran after her and seized her arms, drawing her back to him. Christine was sure the two of them had not been so close for a very long time.

"Christine, it was an accident!" he whispered, the expression on his face mortified and disarmingly sincere. "She came without telling me beforehand, I promise you! I was furious! I would never have done this to you!"

Christine tried to fight him off, as tears of bitterness filled her eyes and blurred her vision. Her strength was now failing her.

"Leave me alone…" she asked weakly.

"Christine, please…" he begged.

"I can't believe you. Let me go."

Raoul relaxed a little his embrace in bewilderment, his anger rushing back.

"Can you see now what music does to you?" he accused bitterly. "Look at you! A few hours at the opera and your completely lose your mind!

"Yes!" she exploded between her sobs, acknowledging at last her own desperate needs. "Yes, that is what music does to me! It makes me feel _alive_! _Alive_!"

"I should never have listened to your pleas!"

"Why don't you worry about your whores instead and leave me be?"

She broke his hold on her arms and without turning back, ran into her room and closed the door behind her. Then, physically and emotionally exhausted, she threw herself on the bed, crying her soul out. She had been crying for perhaps more than an hour when her sobs became less frequent. All she longed for was sleep and gentle arms to comfort her.

"Master", she called weakly.

How she missed him in this moment. His loving voice, his soothing song, his guidance, even his violent possessiveness. Since the beginning, he had been hers and hers alone. Only him could understand her. She wished things had been as clear to her, that fatal night when she had been compelled to make her final choice, as they had finally become tonight. She knew more than ever what she needed and what she wanted. Music. Music. Music. Above all, _his_ music. As she drifted to sleep, she called once more.

"Angel…"

A low, warm humming reached her ears. He was there. His shadow brushed the wall of her room and walked slowly toward her bed. His mask was shining in the moonlight. But this time, Christine felt that his approach was not threatening like the other nights. This time she was not scared. He laid in the bed next to her, took her into his arms. No terror this time, only his soft song in her head and gentle touch on her body, as he made love to her again and again until dawn.


End file.
